Part 1
Art has been a hobby of mine since I was a child. I guess drawing and painting comes naturally to a man when he is a connoisseur of beauty. I've always been a visual person and everywhere I look I see the scene before me transforming into a sketch or a painting. The ugliness fades away and even the homeliest of scenes can become beautiful in my mind's eye, or in my sketchbook. I can often conjure up images in my mind of people I've met or scenes that I saw earlier that day while walking down city streets. These memories serve as inspiration for me when I draw later that evening.
I don't go anywhere without my sketchbook. Anytime I have a free moment I pull it out and start drawing. I work on one book until it's full, then get another. I can go back through the years looking at all the books I've kept since childhood when my mother gave me my first as a gift. That way I can see how my style and interest has evolved over the years. At times I've drawn buildings and city-scapes and other times I've drawn comics. But lately I've been interested in drawing human anatomy. I suppose I'm always eager for a challenge of any kind and drawing the human figure is something that's always eluded me.
At first, the people I drew would come out wonky, disproportional, or ugly. Their hands and feet would look morphed or twisted into impossible positions and their faces looked harsh and alien. That has changed over time, but I still need practice. These days I am trying to draw live models more often. I even go to drawing classes where live models pose for the students, usually in the nude. I like these classes a lot, especially when the model is cute.
Helping me to find a passion at such a young age is something I've got to thank my mother, Maria, for. She encouraged me to work on art when I was a kid and would often get me whatever art and painting supplies I needed. We were really close back then, but that changed as I grew older. During my teenage years we fought a lot. It was mostly over the usual teenage stuff — me wanting more freedom and privacy or to go out to more parties. I was never in trouble for anything serious, but the school principal had to call home a few times when I acted up in class, which my mother was not happy about. Our fighting changed things between us and I pulled away from her and also from my father, although I had never been close to him.
My father didn't show much emotion or affection and I had been used to his coldness since childhood. Come to think of it, my parents made a pretty strange match — she a warm, loving woman, and he a distant workaholic. Anyway, I think those years of separation contributed to her mood because she started to seem more withdrawn into herself, almost like she carried a melancholic aura.
My mother is a shy and gentle woman. When people meet her they come away feeling refreshed and like they've been exposed to a source of free-spirit and non-judgemental energy, though others might find her naive. She's the kind of person who wouldn't judge anybody for how they lived, no matter how strange it was. She just
accepted
people. She always taught me to be the same way, accepting of people and emotions. She certainly isn't an aggressive person, but she carries herself with a quiet defiance that leaves people sensing her open nature. And yet, she often wore a look of mysterious contemplation and you were never quite sure what she was thinking.
Mom never worked and always enjoyed staying home to keep the house, a task she took immense pride in. Our home was always immaculate. For many years, she derived her purpose in raising me — her only child. Being from a conservative culture, Mom and Dad married young and had me quickly. Now that I'm nearly 20 years old, working full-time, and preparing to move out in a few short months, she feels a bit withdrawn. She's certainly not depressed, just different.
She continues to keep the house clean, vacuum daily, and cook for Dad and I, but there is something missing. Nowadays, she spends her time sitting on the couch flipping through magazines. Sometimes I notice a distant look on her face, like her mind is miles away.
I'm not sure what changed, maybe it's just what time does to a woman when her child grows up. As far as I know, her marriage with Dad is okay. At least, it's the same as it's always been. He still gives her the same robotic kiss on the cheek each morning when he leaves for work, but that distant look remains on Mom's face.
A few years ago, when I was in the middle of my rebellious phase and usually bickering with her over one thing or another I couldn't have cared less how she felt or how sad she looked. But lately things have been different. Nowadays, I hate seeing that look on her face. It's weird to admit, but I want my mom to be happy. I guess I'm growing up.
One Saturday afternoon I was home alone with her. Dad had kissed Mom's cheek like normal that afternoon after lunch as he left, muttering something like, "I'll probably be late tonight, we're going for drinks after the golf game. Don't wait up for me." Then headed out the door without waiting for a response.
"Alright, dear," she had quietly said while he was too far away to have even heard.
I myself had retreated to my bedroom in the basement to play video games but grew bored after a few hours. I had a nagging thought in my mind and I decided to go see what Mom was doing. It was weird behavior for me considering how I had purposefully avoided her for the past 3 years.
Do I miss her?
I wondered. Whatever. I wasn't one for introspection of my feelings. I went upstairs to find Mom.
Our house is a single-story with a full-sized basement. It's not big, but it's perfect for the three of us. The basement consists of a large, unfinished laundry and storage room with my bedroom in the corner. On the main floor is the kitchen, living room, and my parents' bedroom, which, thankfully, is located at the opposite corner of the house.
Our rooms being far apart means that, as long as I keep my door closed, I can watch movies as loud as I want during the night and they don't hear a thing. The house is decorated beautifully, thanks to Mom. She gave each room its own personality. The kitchen is practical and minimalistic, while the living room is quite the opposite. A large L-shaped couch sits in the corner around a big square wooden coffee table. There are a dozen, or so, plants and candles laying around and large draping white curtains over the windows. There is a large mirror and a few lamps, which my mom uses to create a warm mood in the evenings.
There is no TV in the living room. Mom insisted it be a wholesome place to relax, talk, or read — nothing more. I don't think Dad is a big fan of that policy but he seems content to watch sports in the bedroom most nights.
Rounding the corner above the stairs, I saw Mom sitting on the couch. Her shoulder-length brown hair sat lightly on the back of the couch. She was flipping through a magazine. Probably something about fashion or interior-design. She wore that distant, almost disappointed look again. The one I was starting to hate.
Why did I care so much?
I leaned against the wall and looked at her for a few moments before continuing to the kitchen. As I passed she looked up at me for a brief moment, raising her eyebrows. "So Tyson has emerged from his cave?"
"Mmhmm," I murmured.
In the kitchen I brewed a pot of green tea, then brought two cups out with me and set them on the big table in front of the couch along with a couple of cookies.
"Here, Mom," I said, sitting down beside her. "Mind if I join you?" I pulled out my sketchbook.
